The Crow: Forgotten
by TheCandyWrappers
Summary: Summary coming soon
1. Hell Sends an Angel Bearing Gifts

It was an accident.

At least, that was what they claimed. And a year later, everyone had forgotten it had even happened. The boys who did it graduated, and went to the local college. They probably forgot, too.

But Tom certainly didn't forget. And under the watchful eye of the Crow, he learned to think of nothing else but that train that would take him from the afterlife back to Earth, so he could play out his revenge. But don't look, the Crow sang. He was only supposed to take the memories in small doses, when the Crow wanted him to. And then, when he himself became the Crow, he would be able to control how often he saw it. But nothing could stop his mind from wandering, when he was alone, on that long train ride back to the world...

Tom was a lonely kid. He had never made friends very easily, and liked to keep to himself during free hours, either sketching away pictures in his notebook, or reading very old literature. No one paid attention to him, but that was fine, because he didn't pay attention to them, either. He was content being in his own world, with his own fictional characters and scenery. Hazel eyes surveyed the pages he loved more than any other human, his pale fingers found a pen and created beautiful pieces of art. Deep brown hair that looked almost black under the shadow of the pavillion that sat outside the school walls, jagged and usually a little messy, framed his face and met up in a soft widow's peak on his forehead.

Sometimes he would draw a girl. Her name was Aleda, and he thought she was beautiful. Her name meant "small and winged one," and he thought it fit her perfectly. Other than her, his eyes never seemed to travel into the faces of others. And if he ever was caught looking at her, he would glance away, a blush starting to grace his features.

He managed to go his whole life without anyone laying uncomfortable eyes on him, until his last year of high school. A group of boys, a typical conglomerate of teenagers that were on sports teams and were fairly popular, decided to make him a victim of their boredom. In-between classes, when he was walking through the halls, they would often corner him and basically just interrogate the hell out of the kid. At first, that was it. Just playful, annoying questioning about what he'd been drawing during Math or asking why he liked to read so much.

They especially liked to ask about his drawings of Aleda.

"Who is this?" They would ask. "She looks familiar."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"I couldn't see why she would want _you_, you're so goddamn weird and _quiet_ all the time..."

But it moved on after a while, to taking the books from his hands and either not giving them back, or ripping them up. Tom found the situation confusing, and, unknowing of how to deal with their actions, kept silent. He didn't feel any teachers would care, nor did he think the issue was important enough to mention. Just some bullies looking for amusement.

The boys kept poking the fire. He eventually stopped bringing his books, and stopped with his drawing at school, hoping that would make them lose interest. It didn't work, so he began finding different routes around school to avoid them. Only days of that lasted until, like dogs following a scent, they found his new track.

They toyed with him, pushing his back against the brick of the wall beside the door that led inside, to the hallway. It wasn't anything too violent, he supposed, at first. Just making sure he wasn't able to run.

"Avoiding us, now?" asked the one who usually seemed to take the lead. His name was Aaron Mitchell, and he was on the soccer team. Tom had come to refer to him as Prince Charming, because he had the swept-back blonder hair and killer smile that so many of the girls in the school seemed to so easily fall for. His two cronies, one just a regular jock (that one was called Harry Wisefield), and the other, also on the soccer team. Tom wasn't sure who that third one was, namewise. He just liked to follow the other two around and be in their crowd. Tom's nickname for that one was Mouse, because despite his strong physique, his face appeared almost rodentlike and small.

Tom said nothing, moving slightly, trying to just back on his way to class. Aaron pulled him forward, pushed him back hard. This wasn't going to be so simple; his back hurt now, and some spots flashed before his vision. The school bell rang. Late for class.

"I say we try and convince him to stop avoiding us," Harry spoke up, nodding his head in the direction of the bathrooms. The third boy jabbered on in approval, and Tom looked from one face to the next, confused, starting to squirm.

"Hmm, that sounds like a very good idea," Aaron approved, his hands gripping one of Tom's arms hard. Tom fought, still not too sure of what was about to happen, as Harry grabbed his other arm. He was dragged to the bathroom doors and Aaron kicked them open, pulling Tom inside, with the third boy following behind. Tom wasn't a weak kid, in fact, he was surprisingly strong, so eventually, all three of them had to keep hold on him. It was almost hard, because he was rather thin and kept getting close to slipping out of their grasp.

He was brought into a stall and bent over one of the toilets. It was disgusting, up close; even more so than usual, now that Tom had a vague idea of what the group's plans were.

"Howabout a bath, Tom?" Aaron asked, and even though he couldn't see it, Tom was sure there was a grin on his face. "Your hair is looking rather greasy, to me. And they do say hygiene is very important, especially if you want that girl you draw so much to so much as look at you."

Tom's fighting grew again, this time worse, his hands flying and trying to grab at whatever part of the boys he could reach. Mouse called him a "stupid motherfucker," and Aaron punched Tom in the face.

His head smashed against the side of the tank in the scuffle, and his body suddenly went limp. Harry, who had still had a grip on Tom, dropped him, and sent a kick to his stomache.

"Hey, get up."

Blood flowed around Tom's head, slowly. Aaron stepped back, the grin fading as slowly as the pool of blood grew. Mouse had already taken off running. Harry was about to disappear, as well, mumbling that he was really late to class and should go.

Aaron finally turned away, as well, walking quickly outside with Harry. They managed to get away with it. They told eachother it was an accident, and when Mouse had a moment of weakness and confessed to his coach, the coach said they should keep their mouths shut if they wanted to stay on the team.

_"Stop looking!"_ The Crow said in Tom's ear. He snapped out of his reverie, visions of the past disappearing. His eyes turned from the train window, finding the bird on his shoulder. _"These are things you do not want to see again, boy."_

Tom nodded, his fingers going up to brush over the makeup that had been put on his face. His face depicted the mask of Irony, white-white with black on his eyes, lips black with lines outstretched to make him look like he was always smiling, even if he frowned.

_"We are arriving..." _The Crow said, and suddenly, it flapped its wings. The train began to shake, lights flashing, a screeching noise filling Tom's ears. He covered them, eyes squeezing shut. A hand touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes again, and there was the conductor, skeleton face and skeleton hand.

"Last stop, sir," a voice said, coming from the skull, though it's mouth didn't open.

Everything went dark. Tom called out for the Crow. He heard it caw, _"push."_

Tom felt envoloped, suddenly, and his lungs heaved for lack of air. He pushed, and pushed, muscles searing as he roared along with the force that he used. And then he burst from the earth, coffin door flying open, grass and dirt going everywhere. He gasped, grabbing at the ground and pulling himself out of his box, crawling to his headstone where the Crow sat.

_"And so it begins."_


	2. Just Pantomining Her Life

Unlike many of her fellow students, most of which went straight onward with their lives with no second thought, Aleda noticed the change. She noticed the frightened, guilty gleam in the eyes of the jocks. She noticed the empty seat in the back of the class, three rows behind her and two to the right. She noticed that the day they MEs carried the body bag from the front doors of the dreary public school and slung it into the back of a coroner's van was the last day that the sun, which was already a rare sight in their city, dared to shine.

She had been the only student present that day, the day they removed the body from the bathroom. The principals had sent out a memo to the parents/guardians of any student currently enrolled in the school that the building would be closed for three day's time and, being naturally inquisitive, this sparked Aleda's interests.

In her experience, schools never closed; something was terribly, terribly wrong. She replayed the message on the machine, listening to every word and picking up on the distinctly crestfallen tone of the school's office secretary. That, in itself, was odd for the woman in the office never sounded anything more than bored. Indeed, whatever had happened at PS 187 was grim.

Thus, Aleda mumbled a quick goodbye to her grandmother and threw on the closest shoes she could find. Nevermind that fact that sneakers don't exactly go along with sundresses- the girl was in a hurry. In all actuality, she was merely curious in the beginning. She hated not knowing. But, as she neared the end of her thirteen block journey, her curiosity gave way to dread. Police. A coroner's van. Flashing lights and detectives standing here and there, conversing with the principals. "Oh no," she mumbled to herself, "someone died."

Cautiously, she approached the building, as far as the barking policemen would allow her to go. A principal, Mr. Barrows, spotted her.

"Aleda, what are you doing here? Did you not get the memo?"

"No, sir," she lied, quickly. Her yellow eyes went wide as two MEs came out of the building, each one carrying the end of a body bag. Her voice shook a bit, "W-who's in there?"

Mr. Barrows shrugged, "To hell if I know. Some scrawny, pale boy." He, then, patted her rather heavily upon her tiny shoulder, "Get home, you don't need to see this."

She nodded and tried to walk away, but her eyes kept going back to the body bag, following it as the MEs threw it into the back of the coroner's van and slammed the doors. At that exact moment, the sun disappeared behind the clouds. Aleda hadn't seen it since then.

She spent the next three days mulling over the scene. The bodybag. The principal's cold demeanor. It all seemed wrong. That "scrawny, pale boy" was a person, just like the rest of the students. He had been a living being, capable of thought and feelings and he was someone's relative or really bugged her, not knowing which one of her classmates had perished. She called all of her male friends, and even her female friends that vaguely resembled males, merely to make sure they were okay.

Everyone was fine. The mystery continued to remain unsolved until the students returned to school after the mess had been cleaned up and any evidence had been collected.

Aleda surveyed the halls as she made her way to her first period class, casually returning hello's and checking off names on the list in her mind. It seemed as if everyone was accounted for, she sighed with relief. Upon entering first period history, her discomfort immediately returned. Tom wasn't in his seat in the very back of the room, three rows behind and two to the right of her own seat. He'd never once missed a day of school, ever.

She looked around the class room, incase he had decided to change seats. He wasn't there. Everyone was staring at her oddly. Finally, a redhaired girl in the front row questioned her. "What's wrong, Aleda?" The girl's name was Amber. She was on the softball team and had a strong arm, Aleda generally liked her.

"Yeah, Al, what's wrong?" Brian shouted from the back.

No one noticed. Did no one know of the death? Had no one heard?

"Where's Tom?" she countered. "Is he ill?"

"Who?" Brian shouted in response. In all honesty, Brian could be heard quite clearly from the back row, but he did love to be obnoxious.

"Didn't you hear, Aleda?" Amber whispered, "That boy died a few days ago. I heard he killed himself."

"That's what the police said!" Brian shouted. "He smashed his own head!"

The teacher cleared his throat, "Sit down, please, Aleda."

She quickly took her seat, but continued to whisper to Amber. "What makes them think that?"

"He was really quiet, "Amber replied, "and always alone. I'm not surprised that he finally ended it."

Aleda ignored her. Tom just didn't seem like the type to end his life. He had been bright and talented, always sketching something with the utmost concentration. Aleda had often wanted to ask him what it was he was drawing, but never had. Now she would never have the chance. It was a shame, she thought, because Tom had been such a gentle soul. When they were in elementary and junior high school, he was the only boy that never made fun of Aleda for having yellowish eyes. The only reason the other ever stopped was because her chest finally filled out. She didn't believe for one moment that Tom had commited suicide. In fact, she had her own theory.

There were three boys that were always bothering Tom. Aaron Mitchell and Harry Wisefield and. . .someone else. Aleda knew they were fond of trapping their targets and beating them quite a bit. What if they went too far this time?

Harry and Aaron were in her seventh period Spanish class. She'd find out.

Everyone seemed perfectly fine, throughout the whole day. No one noticed the empty seat in the back of the class, not even the teachers. It infuriated her, and it only added fuel to the fire that no one seemed to realize why she was annoyed.

At only 5'1'', Aleda wasn't very intimidating to anyone, but the looking in her bright eyes and the way she slammed her hands upon Harry's desk, leaning over him menacingly with venom in her voice, "Where's Tom, Harry? Have you seen him? I know how much you like to walk around the halls with him. Have you seen him today? Have you seen him since Monday?"

Harry had jumped at the sound of her tiny fist hitting the wooden desk top, which was actually quite loud. He was the more skiddish one of the jocks. "N-no," he stammered. "Why?"

Aleda took a went out on a limb, "He's a friend of mine and I can't seem to find him anywhere.

I heard someone _beat him to death _in the bathroom."

Harry's eyes seemed to freeze, and then Aleda knew for sure that she had been right. Without another word, she turned swiftly on her heal and marshed to her seat.

The next day Aleda came into the history classroom carrying a single red rose, which she placed silently upon Tom's desktop. It was the only thing she could really do, for no one would listen to her about his death. Everyone seemed to have more important things on their minds and soon, it was forgotten all together by everyone. Except her.

Every day for the rest of the school year, Aleda placed a rose upon his desk. It annoyed the janitors, sure, but it seemed like the only thing she could do. Maybe if she had ever once spoken up for him it wouldn't have happened, she felt. If anyone had ever said a word, he'd still be alive. His blood was on all of their hands, and no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't help but see the red all over her own.

Occasionally, Aleda would continue to harrass Harry and Aaron and that other boy whose name she could never remember. He looked kind of like a rodent. She would stare at them for minutes on end, mouthing the words "I know" when they dared glance at her. In a sense, she hoped they would attack her in efforts to silence her. People would notice if she disappeared. No one could blow it off as a suicide and eventually the bullies would be put away.

But, alas, senior year came to a close and everyone moved on. No one remembered that Monday in the spring. Except for her.

She remained within the city after highschool, caring for her grandmother. She took a job at a diner not far from her home, observing the passerby when she wasn't waiting upon them. None of them seemed to be aware of the desolation around them. The city was a mess, crime was at an all time high, and murderers were walking the streets. She was probably taking their orders.

"Why does it upset you so?" her grandmother once asked, as Aleda vented in frustration about the whole situation.

"Because someone has to be upset," Aleda answered a little too harshly, "someone needs to be hurt, someone needs to notice when a good person dies. That boy deserved someone to miss him, someone to care that he isn't around." Aleda left out how no one would listen to her, how no one believed her that Tom had been murdered. In a sense, she feared that even her own grandmother would think her crazy.

Her grandmother nodded, always so understanding. But she too, often forgot what it was that bothered her granddaughter so. It was merely a byproduct of her oldage.

The only other person that seemed to show any recognition of a tragedy besides Aleda was the office lady, whom had agreed to meet Aleda at the school at midnight on the one year anniversary of Tom's death so that she could unlock the door. Though she had grown to accept that she could do nothing to change what had happened, and that Aaron Mitchell and Harry Wisefield would, in all likelihood, live long and happy lives, Aleda still felt that she could provide one final rose for the ghost of a boy that she never really knew.

"Thankyou, Mrs. Baker." Aleda offered a kind smile, the type of smile that was rapidly disappearing from the city's streets.

"You're welcome, dear. It's a shame that that boy felt so lost. He could have used a friend like you, y'know."

Aleda frowned. It was wonderful that someone else remembered Tom, but it was rather annoying that Mrs. Baker assumed him to be the suicidal shadow that everyone else had described him to be.

"Yeah," Aleda saw no point in arguing, "I should've paid more attention to him." Which was true.

"It's not your fault, dear," Mrs. Baker patted her shoulder with an oblivious smile, "Will you relock the door once your done here? I really must return home."

"Don't let me keep you," Aleda smiled again before disappearing into the dark depths of the deserted school. It was eerie, walking around the halls completely alone. Every little creak caused her to jump; something was always around every corner in her mind.

Finally, Aleda came to the classroom. It was always unlocked, merely because the doorknob was broken. She took a breath and pushed the door open, eager to feel the security of a smaller space. Still, even the classroom seemed foreboding. It was all the shadows created by the dim light cast off by the street lamp outside; she always saw a foe from the corner of her eyes.

Ignoring her discomfort, Aleda ventured to the back row to a desk that had always haunted her peripheral vision with it's vancancy. She took a seat in the desk beside it, staring at it, imagining the boy that once occupied it. He had become her own personal madness, sometimes making her question even her own sanity. Was it all in her head? Had Tom ever even been alive in the first place?

Yes, he had to have been. She could see him so cleary with his bright hazel eyes and deep, chocolatey hair which had so often been in casual disarray.

It shocked Aleda, how clearly she had remembered him and now more than ever she regretted never speaking to him. A casual "hello" would have sufficed.

A single tear fell from her citrine coloured eyes, followed by another as she placed the rose upon his desk. "I don't really know if you even liked roses," she said finally, as if he could hear her. She stayed silent for a few long moments. Perhaps if she pretended that Tom was there sitting in his desk as she apologized , then maybe she, too, could forget and move on.

After a moment, she could clearly see him there. He propped his head upon one hand, holding the rose in the other, twirling it between his long, slender fingers. Dark hair often swept into his eyes, which were fixed upon her. They were kind, not blaming.

Aleda sighed and began, "I could have helped you somehow. If I had spoken up, people would have noticed what was going, things would have changed. And I did speak up," she tried to explain to her apparition which nodded patiently, "only I spoke up too late. You were already dead. I tried for months to make people hear me, to find someone to listen. At first everyone thought it was a suicide then. . .they forgot all together. No one remembered what I was talking about.

But I swear, _I tried_."

She didn't know Tom well enough to imagine what his reply would have been. She did not recall his voice to imagine it flowing from his lips. Thus, the image of he guilt, her obsession, stared back at her in silence. She wanted so badly to imagine him telling her that it was okay, that the sun would come out again, and that he was at peace now.

She told him that. Still, she couldn't imagine a reply.

"I need to forget you. I need to sleep at night and move on. But I can't," a few more tears fell, "you deserve someone to remember."

Aleda stood, willing her vision of Tom to disappear. Still, even as she walked back to the door and cast one final look back to the rose upon the desk, she felt as if he was still there, with her. "I won't forget you."


	3. Along the Vine I Came

Tom found his feet again. The Crow spun 'round his head, cawing and singing and flying as he walked through the graveyard, fingers brushing over headstones. His eyes trailed over their engravements until he found his parents'. Slowly he sunk to his knees, touching every crack and crevice, until his hands found their names.

"Gregory and Felicia Barrow," he breathed, a sad smile on his black lips. "I regret that I have not been able to come and visit you for a year. Something kept me... preoccupied. I---" He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to work out what he needed to say. "I never got to say a real goodbye before I left."

The Crow fluttered and landed on his mother's grave.

_"We must be going, soon, Thomas."_

He nodded in reply, pressed his lips to both stones, leaving black marks. He rose, after keeping his forehead pressed to his father's name for a minute, whispering final goodbyes.

A flutter of black-feathered wings carried him. When he was being transported by the Crow, it was as if, for a moment, he didn't exist. His body became wind in feathers, became nothing, became the night air. It was exhilerating. It was hellishly scary.

They came to a pretty neighborhood. It was probably only just after sunset, but everyone was already inside. Perfect picket-white fences. Trimmed grass and hedges. Each house was almost identical in structure and design, and each family was probably the same way. Tom did not like the feel of this place... it was reminiscent of all the kids at his school. All of the ones who looked down their noses at any of the kids who were treated as naught but a bit of scum on the bottoms of their pricey shoes.

Tom ground his teeth together, feet hitting the pavement as if he'd only jumped from a rooftop. The Crow flitted by, leading him to a house, sitting on its mailbox. He walked up to the bird, and read the name on its perch.

_Wisefield. _

He knew why Harry had his own house already. His parents had an unending amount of money, even more than Aaron's. That was pretty much the only reason why, despite his blunt stupidity, he had made passing grades in all his classes. The school wanted their donations to remain generous and nonstop. Doubtless, he'd begged his family for his own home.

"Does he have a wife?" Tom asked, eyeing the house, his hands going to the pockets of his black jeans. He watched the windows of the house. One light was on, and a television was going.

_"Divorced. He cheated on her," _the Crow informed him. Tom made a face. He'd probably married that girl - Jessica, or something, the one he'd gone to all those dances with - straight out of school. And it hadn't even taken a full year for the kid to screw that up. _"He thinks he's going to be a professional soccer player." _

Tom raised an eyebrow, gaze going back to the bird. Harry had never been an especially good player; and his legs hadn't gained as much muscle as his teammates' by the end of training. The whole school had been abuzz about it. Coach had made him sit out when his parents hadn't come to games.

_"Steroids," _the Crow cawed, answering his silent question.

Tom wondered just how big Harry was, now. He'd been in a lot of fights throughout school, too, so this would probably be a tricky ordeal. Tom did not yet know the extent of what he could do under the eye and direction of the Crow.

He slunk to the door, bird on his shoulder. He rang the bell, then sidestepped into the shadow of the perfectly trimmed bushes and waited. Footsteps neared the door, and it opened. He could only see the shadow on the pavement and steps that led to the entrance of Harry's home. A hulking shadow of a man was there, the ends of the sash of his houserobe dangling. He had gotten even taller.

"Hello?" The man called, sounding suspicious. He called out again, then mumbled, "Stupid people must be out tonight."

Tom breathed and a cold wind blew. Harry's shadow shivered and began to retreat back inside. The Crow fluttered inside, quickly, and Harry let go of the door, trying to hit at it.

_"Get out of my house, fucking bird!"_ He yelled, and Tom shot foward while Harry was distracted, stepping into the house and closing the door. He locked it behind him. The Crow flew into another room, and Harry, looking frazzled, turned to face Tom. He froze, eyes wide, taking in the side of the person before him. His shock disappated after a moment and was replaced with an angry snarl.

"What are you supposed to be, some sort of clown?" He said, not really bothering with an getting an answer. "Get out, if you know what's good for you. I have a gun."

Tom grinned, his arms spreading in a welcoming gesture. "Then I suggest you get it, Harry, so you at least have a fighting chance."

Harry's face clouded with disbelief and more anger. How did this freakshow know his name? "Are you some kind of idiot, clown? I said_ get out_."

"No," Tom said, simply, shaking his head. "Honestly, I thought you would treat an old friend with a little more... _hospitality_." He dragged his tongue along his teeth as those ebony lips formed another smile, accentuated by the lines that curved almost to his white cheeks.

"Friend? What friend of mine are you, asshole?" Harry said, starting to back up down the hallway, fumbling for light switches as he went. Tom walked slowly foward with him, appearing calm, and amused. "I've never even been close to talking to freaks like you." They passed the room with the television on; sports. How unexpected.

"Freaks like me," Tom echoed, looking thoughtful. He followed Harry into his bedroom. "That wasn't the exact term you used to favour in school. I think it was something more like 'weirdo.' You've become so much more eloquent, Harry."

With hands that shook a little, Harry held up the gun that he'd just retrieved from inside his nightstand. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, man, but if you want to keep your brains in your head, you'd better leave right now."

Tom continued to walk toward him, until his forehead was almost pressed against the barrel of the weapon. Harry's finger lighted on the trigger, eyes almost bulging out of his sockets, he was so disturbed by how close Tom got. He'd never done well in the company of weirdos, anyway, and Tom reeked of dirt and something decidedly _dead_.

"I think you'll remember me if you really try," Tom cooed, blackened eyes not leaving his former schoolmate's. "I think you'll remember my struggles, and how much blood flowed from my cracked skull as I lay there, while you walked away." His smile turned into an angry baring of teeth, and his fist came out of nowhere, colliding with Harry's cheek.

Harry fell back, finger tightening on the trigger. The gun went off, and Tom felt the bullet make friends with his neck. His head snapped back like a flower broken from the stem, and he stumbled a few steps away.

"Oh shit," Harry murmured, when Tom's body didn't drop to the floor or start to gush blood. He watched, horrified, as Tom's wound began to heal. Tom cracked his neck once the process was done, slowly raising his head back up, amusement all over his made-up face. The healing as a strange feeling, and he was glad it was over with.

"You're dead," Harry said, recognition dawning upon him now. He was babbling. "You're dead! There was blood and everything, and you didn't move. I saw it myself, I _saw_..." He trailed off, face almost as white as Tom's, now.

"_Now_ you remember!" Tom said, delighted, walking toward Harry. His foot went back fast and then foward, smashing into the hand that held the gun. Harry dropped the weapon, gasping and grabbing the fingers that were surely broken. "I just love a good reunion." Tom crouched down, taking a bunch of Harry's shirt in his hands and pulling him foward so that their noses almost touched. "How many lives did you make a living hell?" He questioned, shaking Harry slightly. The man whimpered.

"Tsk, not very manly," Tom reprimanded. "You always told me that if I wanted to get _anything_ in life, I needed to man up. Cut my hair. Stop being _'a stuck up artist_._'_ Because you knew it all, didn't you, Harry? You knew how to be perfect. Pushing kids around that you knew wouldn't say anything about it, whispering disgusting things to any girl that sat in front of you just to watch them _squirm_. Such a man."

Tom had known he wasn't the only person to get bullied by people like Harry, Aaron and their Mousekateer. He had seen each of them messing with someone else. It just so happened that Tom had been at the top of their list. He'd been the most fun. Tom's mind gave him images of everyone he'd watched them trail and torture. He'd wondered if they knew the things they said could ruin a person's image of themselves, thus resulting in tearing apart an important key in what kept humans alive: self-respect.

And that was probably what had made the group notice him, too. He'd spoken to them before, when they'd been interrogating a girl named Megan. Megan had never done anything mean to anyone in her life. So he had asked them to stop.

_"Don't look back there, Tom!" _

The voice of the Crow screeched in his ear, and he grabbed the gun that had fallen to the ground. He pressed it against Harry's head, and the man began to shout, fighting him. Tom knew he had little time before the cops got here, since the first shot had surely woken the neighborhood.

"That boy who followed you and Aaron around, what was his name?" Tom asked, voice a growl.

"Fuh-fuh-Frederick Guh-Granger," Harry choked out. Tom nodded. Frederick would be next.

"Apologize, now," Tom said, leaning back with Harry still in his grip, and then pushing him hard against the wall that his back had leaned on. "Not just to me, but to every person you _ever _harmed, in any way."

"I-I'm sorry," Harry wheezed.

_Bang._

Tom could hear the sirens up the street. He ran to Harry's closet, grabbing a jacket that hung long on his lanky body, made like a trenchcoat. He slipped the gun into the pocket, and went to the window, flinging it open. A flutter of Crow's wings, and he was gone.

They arrived at the school. The campus was quiet and dark, and Tom walked the halls with a sick sort of nostalgia in his gut that even the power of the Crow couldn't prevent.

He walked by his old locker, old classrooms, and forced himself not to go into the bathroom where he'd been killed. The Crow had allowed him this trip, but warned that he should not let himself go places where his mind would delve too far into the past.

Tom came to the classroom that he felt most drawn to. He wasn't too sure what was so compelling about it, but the door easily opened, and so he went inside. His feet carried him to his old desk, and he sat down. Upon it was a rose.

Carefully, he picked it up, feeling a strange sort of warmth coming from the delicate object. He smelled its petals, and a slight smile crossed his face.

Its scent was so familiar...


	4. Blurred as a Dream

"Well, dang."

Aleda dug around in her crowded bag, searching for her house key. It wasn't there. Her grandmother wouldn't hear if she pounded upon the door and Aleda just didn't like having her key lost somewhere in the grimy city streets. Thus, she sighed and trudged down the steps of her home, ignoring her exhaustion. She hadn't driven to the flower shop where she had preferred to purchase the roses, nor had she driven to the school. It seemed most likely that the damned key was lying somewhere along the sidewalk or maybe back at PS 187.

A shiver went up Aleda's delicate spine as she marched along, scanning the sidewalks. It was a chilly spring night, and she wore only a light jacket over her yellow sundress (yellow being her preferred colour). Aleda pulled it tightly around her, still searching. For the first time in a very long while, Aleda felt fine. It seemed as if making amends to her imaginary Tom had done something to lift her spirits. She smiled and imagined that, somewhere, his spirit would be smiling as well.

She continued in this state for three more blocks, casually searching for her missing key, until something else caught her attention. The concrete in front of her began to alternate is dull shades of red. Then blue. Red again. No, now it was blue. Red again!

Her sunset eyes swept from the ground, looking towards the street closest to her- it was the uppity neighborhood. Three cop cars were parked at one of the first houses, their flashy lights staining the ground. Another murder, she assumed. Murders had become a common occurrence in the last few months. The only thing out of the ordinary about this one was the location for the aristocracy seemed to escape the crime wave all together.

Aleda kept on, slowing slightly as she came closer to the street, searching for the name on the house. All of the rich people had their surname printed upon a plaque outside their homes, it seemed, and Aleda was still just as inquisitive as she had ever been. Finally, she spotted the plaque and could just barely make out the name from her distance.

Wisefield.

She stopped, staring now. She had remembered hearing from that loud-mouthed Brian (whom she still kept in touch with) that Harry Wisefield's parents bought him his own shiny new home in a upscale neighborhood called Sunny Pines or some bullstuff title like that. She looked for a street sign and, sure enough, it read "Sunrise Pines". As if there had ever been an actual sunrise in that city. Or pines, for that matter.

After a few moments a coroner's van sped onto the street and parked by one of the squad cars.

Now she was really curious. Had Harry Wisefield been murdered?

One of the cops noticed her at the end of the street and made a shooing gesture. She stuck her tongue out and marched onward, still smiling.

What goes around comes around , she thought to herself. Her faith in karma had been restored. But just a bit.

Finally, Aleda came to the school. Having come up empty handed thus far, it seemed only logical that her key would be lying somewhere within the darkened maze of halls or, perhaps, the history room. And, to her delight, she had forgotten to lock the door after herself earlier.

This night just keeps getting better and better , she mused and allowed herself the guilty pleasure of humming now. It was a child's song, one that her grandmother hummed often. Every now and then she would forsake humming and sing a line or two as she navigated throughout the empty building, bending down low to search the ground.

" You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. . ."

It was nowhere to be seen. She came to the history room and found the door slightly ajar. That was odd, she distinctly remembered closing it. It must have been the broken knob, she decided.

She wondered if the rose would still be there. In all actuality, she knew it would be for the janitor's had yet to come into the building. Still, Aleda had often allowed herself the illusion of Tom's spirit taking them to his grave. She had even gone to graveyard to check once or twice. They were never there.

" You make me happy when the skies are gray. . ." she continued, giving the door a small push and slipping inside, keeping her eyes upon the ground as she retraced her steps into the room.

There it lay upon the floor, shimmering in the dim light cast by the streetlamps outside the window that over looked the back of the room. It must have fallen out of her bag as she sat down in the desk next to Tom's former seat. Speaking of which. . .

Aleda allowed her gaze to leave the floor, searching for the rose upon his desk top. A small shriek escaped her lips and she stumbled back a couple of steps, merely out of surprise.

She really hadn't expected to see anyone there, especially not a tall, lanky man with his face painted in a jesteresque mask of black and white.

He held the rose in between his long, slender fingers with a smile playing upon his blackened lips which seemed to extend all the way to his cheeks. There was something distinctly inhuman about him. . .something not quite right. She started to run, for this seemed to be a scene from some suspense movie and she had no intentions of playing the victim. But he was merely sitting there wordlessly and there seemed to be something oddly familiar about him.

It was the way he was hunched over the desk. . .like an artist over his sketch pad. Aleda was now far too intrigued to run, she even dared to take a step closer. And another. Finally, amidst the blackened eyes she spotted two hazel orbs. Staring; observing.

No. It couldn't be. He was dead. Dead, dead, dead. That fact had nearly driven her over the brink of insanity in the past year. It couldn't be him. But it was. Those were his eyes. . .that was his posture. . .and that face under the makeup, Aleda soon saw that it was his, as well.

"Tom?"

The breath left her; Aleda's unconscious form fell to the floor.


	5. Around, Around the Sun We Go

Tom was lost in the feel of the petals against his fingers. Red as blood, soft as skin.

He jumped slightly when he heard a shriek, snapping out of some sort of daze. He was on his feet in seconds, staring at Aleda, recognition on his face immediately. Tom set the rose on the desk. His lips parted to breathe her name, though the word didn't come out, and as she fell, he came foward fast, kneeling and catching her body before it could hit the floor.

The Crow flew in, feathers bristling until it saw that Tom wasn't letting her go; rather, he stared at her face unblinkingly.

_"You know her."_

"Not really," Tom said, shaking his head. "But... I did see her a lot. In school." He brushed some hair from Aleda's eyes. "What is she doing here?" Had she left the rose? It cast an aura like hers. "She said my name," he added, though that part was said mostly to his own self, as if reassuring himself that it had actually happened.

_"I see that she's the one you used to draw pictures of,"_ the Crow said. _"Strange forces bring humans together. Come, let us go."_

Tom looked at the bird imploringly. "We can't leave her laying here." The Crow said nothing for a moment, then went to perch on his shoulder. It looked at Aleda, then at Tom.

_"We'll need a car, then."_

Soon Tom was speeding down the road, hands tightly gripping the wheel of a dark blue, shiny hulk of a car that had belonged to a drug dealer. Glancing up, he could still see the man running after him, a reflected image in the rearview mirror. The steal had been too simple; he'd pulled up beside Tom to ask if he was interested in buying something. When Tom had nodded, he'd grinned and started to reach into the back seat. Half a minute later, he was out on the concrete road, wild-eyed and clumsily brandishing a knife, threatening to kill Tom if he took his drug money.

The knife had also been easy to steal. Tom's foot touched the gas harder, and soon, the dealer was out of sight. He went to the school, retrieving Aleda and putting her into the back seat. She would most definitely be confused when she awoke, even scared, but leaving her in that old unlocked school all night seemed far too risky.

That, and Tom was unfathomably happy to see her.

The Crow flew into the open passenger side window as he rolled to a stop in a neighborhood that looked like it had been burned twice and raided twice more. There was a strange, sweet smell with a tang of the scent of burnt plastic that wafted from a nearby alleyway. Crack.

Tom saw three figures creeping along the side of the road. One was tall and skinny, the other, short and burly. And in-between them, was the one Tom knew was Mouse. They got closer and his rodentlike features became evident; except now, a scar was on the right side of his face, probably left from a fight.

They eyed the car Tom sat in, probably recognising it, and began to walk toward him. He got out of the car, closing the door and standing there as the Crow flew and perched atop the vehicle. The three figures stopped, just under a lamp post that cast a pool of light around their feet.

"You ain't Locust," one pointed out, dumbly. It was the guy that was stocky. Tom only nodded, a smile starting to tug at the corner of his mouth. "Where's Locust?"

"Oh, he's taking a break tonight, boys," Tom said, stepping toward them once. They looked at him cautiously. Mouse had a very strange expression on his scarred face he surveyed Tom, one that said he couldn't quite place the face in front of him.

"Why you painted up like that?" Mouse asked, after the silence. He folded his arms, now, apparently, not so timid. "Is it supposed to be _scary_? 'Coz it sorta looks stupid."

Tom shrugged, going up to Mouse, who adopted a punching stance. Their eyes locked. Still, Mouse seemed unsure of who Tom was.

"Look man, you gonna sell us some or what?" Asked the tall one. Tom looked at him with a grin.

"Or what."

They all looked mystified at his answer, totally missing the joke. "_Words can't be wasted on the stupid," _the Crow said, from somewhere above the buildings. Tom took another step toward Mouse.

"Do you remember me, Frederick?" he asked. His schoolmate scatched his head, squinting.

"Naw," he replied, starting to smile, "I don't think I've ever hung out with a whacko like you before."

"That's pretty much what your friend Harry said," Tom said, nodding.

Mouse thought for a minute. "Harry _Wisefield_?" He asked, recognition dawning on his face. "I haven't seen him in a few months. You know Harry?"

"We go way back," Tom grinned. "Maybe if I say my name you'll recall. Tom. Tom Barrow."

Beat.

Fred's eyes bulged. He slowly nodded, mouth starting to gape open. "You--- oh, that_ kid_... But you're..." he trailed off, then murmured, "I saw you _die_, man."

His two friends looked bewildered and impatient, now. The short one flicked out his knife. "Look Fred, if you want this guy to stop bothering you, just say so."

"Yeah," said the tall one. "He's obviously not selling anything and I just _don't like _him."

Tom saw the short man raising his weapon. He turned, grabbed the hand that held the knife and smashed it against the lamp post. As the man shouted and grabbed his hand, he ducked to snatch up the item that had been dropped to the ground. When he came back up, the one who had said he didn't "like" Tom sent a punch his way. The fist collided with Tom's face, but he managed to jab the knife into the stranger's stomache.

The tall one fell to the ground, and Tom glanced around for Mouse. He didn't see him; the coward had run.

He felt someone grab the back of his neck; the guy he'd taken the knife from had risen. Snarling, he turned, getting another punch to the face. He kicked the man's legs out from under him, and jumped to his feet. He sent another kick his way, this time getting the druggie in the stomache.

Tom let out a gasp when he felt something stab his leg. He looked down; the man had retrieved another knife, and it was protruding out of Tom's knee. The stranger jumped up, grabbing Tom's neck again and slamming him against the van in a very tight chokehold.

Tom wheezed, spots going before his vision. He felt blood start to pour. He needed to get that knife out of his leg so the wound could heal.

"I'm gonna kill you, fucker," the man said through gritted teeth.


	6. This Was All Real

_BAM! _Aleda awoke with a foggy mind. She heard distant thunder and saw only blackness. She reached out with groggy hands, feeling around and sat up. She was in the backseat of a large SUV, her eyes adjusted and the darkness faded. She looked about, peering through the windows. The thunder continued, but not from the sky. Two men were engaged in a heavy fight, one of them pinned against the vehicle by the other. He was vaguely familiar. . .Tom! Her mind raced, had any of that been real? Had Tom really been in the classroom? Apparently so.

He seemed to be on the losing side. Her heart raced, she couldn't let him die. Again. Aleda searched about wildly, looking for anything she could use as a weapon, anything at all. There was a crowbar in the floorboard. That would do. she gripped it in her tiny hands and exited from the other side of the van, running around it in a hurry. She hesitated for a moment when she approached the two men, until the agressor lifted his fist menacingly. A sickening thud resounded through her body as she brought the crowbar down heavily upon the man's head. He seemed disoriented now. She hit him again, fearing that sense would return to him. This time he fell with another sickening thud. Blood spewed from the back of his head and stained the edge of the crow bar. He moaned, still twitching. She hit him again, fearing he would get up. He silenced. He was still. Blood still flowed.

Aleda took shaky steps backward, her eyes never leaving the bleeding corpse. Her hands shook, tears formed in her eyes. She'd killed a man. She moved her gaze to Tom, watching as he seemed to recover. His face, though painted, seemed to console her a small bit, for she'd felt as if she'd owed it to him to be his saviour. Still, she shook and tossed the crow bar to the ground where it landed with a clatter at his feet.

She felt the need to move, she had to run. Aleda couldn't stand to be there, not with her victim, nor with Tom. Not after she'd just taken a life. What would he think of her? She ran for miles, past the school, past the park. She ran until her lungs froze and battery acid pulsed through her veins. Finally she could go no further; she allowed herself to observe her surroundings. She was at the cemetary, where they'd buried Tom.

It was dark, only illuminated by a single flickering streetlight. Though she could barely see, Aleda went on. She knew the layout of the place by heart, anyway and a new curiosity struck her in her shaken state. What had become of Tom's grave? Had he clawed his way from the ground? She slowly wove her way in between the graves, careful not to step upon anyone. He had been buried at the very edge, the grave by the fence.

She was getting closer now. Part of her didn't really want to know. As much as she wanted Tom to live again, she'd never considered him actually coming BACK to life. The ground was misshapen, disturbed. As Aleda got closer she saw that, indeed, the mounds of earth she had observed had actually been pushed up from the ground and that Tom's grave was now crowned by a large hole.

She fell to her knees, the soft earth cold against her flesh. He was real. This was all real.


End file.
